Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Inspired by the following gif, posted by the fabulous Sabrecmc:

 Looks like they deleted that one.  Here's either the same gif from a different website, or a very similar gif:

One month after the Chitauri, Tony’s in the kitchen of the tower, staring at the coffee machine as it drips slowly into the pot.  His mind is simultaneously buzzing - equations and designs and specs floating through it faster than the Iron Man armor through unauthorized airspace - and blank: he’s too tired for anything to stick.  He knows - he knows - that after this cup of coffee, he’s going to have two hours of productive time before the crash; he’s drawn this period of wakefulness out to three days, and the hallucinations started an hour ago, when he looked down and tried to start swimming, because he was clearly standing in the middle of the ocean.

So he’s not exactly at his best when Cap says from behind him, “Hey, is that coffee?  Pour me a mug, would you?”

“It’s not ready yet,” Tony snaps, mentally adding, And the first cup is mine, all mine!

“I can tell,” Cap says stiffly.  “I meant when it is.”

“Right.”  

Behind him, Tony can hear Cap moving towards the refrigerator and opening the door.  “Hey, what’s this?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“Chocolate milk, sir,” JARVIS answers for Tony, thank God.  

“You can buy it with the chocolate already in it?”  The delighted, gosh the future is great!-smile rings clearly in his voice.  Tony rolls his eyes.

“It is widely held to be one of the best post-workout refreshments readily available on the market, Captain,” JARVIS says in what is possibly the least subtle hint ever.

“And delicious,” Tony adds without thinking.

“I can only assume, sir.  Given your GPS trail this morning, Captain, I urgently suggest consuming at least three cups.  That would be two of the tall blue glasses in the middle cupboard.”

“Huh.  Thanks,” Cap says.  

“You can blend things into it, too,” Tony babbles, because apparently he’s the only person in the world who gets quieter once he’s consumed his caffeine.  “Bananas are great, or peanut butter - J, do we have the powder?”

“There is indeed powdered peanut butter in the pantry,” JARVIS confirms.  

“Or strawberries, raspberries, you can add spinach without even tasting it -”

“Spinach?” Cap asks, incredulous, laughing at him.

“You don’t even taste it!” Tony insists, then pounces, pulling the coffeepot out too quickly for the drip-catcher to stop, causing a hissing sound and an acrid burn to fill the kitchen.  He pours his mug full to within a quarter-inch of the top - usually he does an eighth of an inch, but today his hands are shaky - and then, grudgingly, pulls another cup and pours for the Captain.  It doesn’t quite get full, but it makes it most of the way; he probably won’t notice, Tony thinks, replacing the pot under the percolator, which releases the drip catch with a happy trickling stream of brown ambrosia.  

“If you do intend to add spinach,” JARVIS is advising, “I strongly recommend pairing the blend with strawberries or raspberries, as the ascorbic acid will aid digestion.”

“Or orange juice.”

“That would curdle the milk, sir.”

“True,” Tony admits, turning around with the semi-full mug for the Captain.

Which he drops.

“HOLY SHIT.”

Steve’s face becomes instantly alarmed.  “What?”  He looks around the kitchen as if expecting a Chitauri warrior to hop out of the dishwasher.  “What is it?”

“What the hell happened?”

“Where?  What are you talking about?!”  Steve is grabbing a broom and a towel for the coffee mug, and all Tony can do is flail his arms in the air in front of him in a way that is probably not terribly informative.

“Y - I mean - your - RRRRGH!”  Tony splutters, then finally manages, “SHIRT!”

Steve looks down.

“Oh, that,” he says, as if it’s normal to have two streaks of blood oozing downward from his nipples.  

“Yes, that!” Tony echoes, horrified.

Steve shrugs, and sweeps the broken ceramic into the dustpan before blotting up the spilled coffee with the terrycloth.  “I run,” he says simply, “and after a while, the friction of the shirt gets to anyone, even me.  At least with the serum it heals up quick.”  He perks up, looking up at Tony from his crouch by the mess like worlds prettiest house elf.  “I like these new technical fabrics, though; way better than the cotton, the cotton always chafed something awful.”  

Tony whimpers.

“Clint was the one who gave me this shirt; I asked for white ones so I could bleach ‘em,” he adds, standing to dump the shards in the trash.

Tony swallows.  “Steve,” he says, “No.”

Steve frowns, irritated.  “No?”

He shakes his head firmly.  “No,” he repeats, and pours a fresh cup of coffee for the Captain.

The next day, Steve finds a dozen packs of Nip Guards, three sticks of Body Glide, a tube of medicated Vaseline, and a subscription to Runner’s World in a gift basket outside his door.  There’s no note, but then, it doesn’t really need one.

It was at this point that someone (Ellidfics) suggested that he really should be wearing a sports bra.

And yes, yes he should.

Clint and Natasha are drinking in the common room when Steve walks in - Clint coffee (probably decaf), Natasha tea.  They’re talking in low voices, and while Clint is dressed casually in loose shorts and a baggy lilac t-shirt, Natasha’s wearing her catsuit and all of her weapons - which means she’s about to head out on a mission.

Steve probably could make out what Clint is telling her as he walks in, but he just came up the stairs -all the stairs - and even he’s panting for breath after that.

Also, whatever Clint had been saying, he clearly breaks off as soon as Steve walks in the room.  Even Natasha’s eyes widen a little, but then, it’s early, and she has other things on her mind.

“Steve,” she greets him.  “You look…  good.”

“Thanks,” he beams at her, starting through the common room, towards the kitchen.  “You, too.”

Clint makes a gurgling sound.

Natasha nods at his chest.  “Did you get that online?” she asks, a microscopic furrow between her eyebrows.  

“Pretty much had to,” Steve admits, pausing next to the couch, since they appear to be in the mood to talk.  “My measurements aren’t exactly common.”

“True,” Clint blurts, staring at the pink-and-white sports bra.  It’s a little… sparkly… but it gets the job done, Steve thinks. Plus, the bright colors improve visibility around cars, and, well… New York drivers, right?

Steve has been wearing a plain white technical shirt over the bra, but even the advanced fabrics get soaked with sweat on a hot July day in New York, especially after thirty-plus miles.  And he’s seen plenty of guys running shirtless, or in odder things than this, so today he went without the shirt - just some Body Glide along his ribs and arms - and he feels great.  

It’s taken some adjusting to get used to fashions in the new world, but now that he has, he’s a pretty big fan.  

“We should go shopping together,” Natasha says now, and Steve sees Clint’s eyes widen with horror out of the corner of his eye.  “When I get back from the mission.”

“Yeah?  You know a place?”

Nat snorts.  “I know all the places,” she tells him confidently.  Then she leans closer, looking at his face.  Her left hand comes up - slowly enough that he has time to realize it’s not a threat - and she grips his chin, running her thumb over his mouth.  “You’re chapped,” she tells him.

“Probably sun- and wind-burn,” he admits.  

She nods.  “Here,” she says, reaching into one of her pouches with her right hand.  She brings a tube of… something red… out, opens it with one hand, and fixes him with a stern look that reminds him of Mrs. Williams, who lived next door to Bucky.  “Hold still.”

She reaches up, smearing the color delicately along his mouth.  Instantly, it cools the slight sting he hadn’t noticed, and when she tells him to rub his lips together, it slips and soothes, the rough rectangles of skin subsiding into an even surface again.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling brightly, and she rubs her thumb along his chin.  Her expression, he notices, doesn’t change, but she tilts her head and neck like a cat getting ready to strop.

Clint gurgles again, this time more desperately.

“Believe me,” Nat says, unfolding her legs and hips from the couch and standing next to him, head tilted to the side, “It was my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

Steve had a bad feeling about this, but there was no way he could get away with not trying.

(“Go ahead, Steve.  No pressure.”  

Thanks, Tony.)

So he stood behind the hammer, rolling up his sleeves...

...and pulled.

The first thing he noticed was that the handle was warm.  It felt the way your face feels when getting drunk, warm and tingling…

The feeling spread through his palms and fingers, into his wrists, his arms…

With a squeak like a train coming to a stop - metal on metal - the hammer rocked.

It’s gonna lift, he realized, genuinely shocked.  For one half-second, he was elated, and then the consequences crashed down on him:  Thor’s face, Tony’s face -

And I don’t want to rule Asgard!

Steve let go of the hammer, pretending to readjust his grip.

Maybe it’s just Mjolnir, he rationalized, pulse beating wildly in his ears.   Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, maybe it’s just the table shifting underneath it.  Everyone probably feels it get electric…

But.

Just in case.

The next time, when he re-gripped the hammer, he made sure his right arm was by the end, and the left arm - the shield-arm, the one that’s infinitesimally stronger - closer to the head.  And when he pulled again, straining with all of his right side -

- He made sure to be pushing with the left.

Chapter Text

Imagine some villain - Idunno, Justin Hammer? - attacking New York, and the Busters are so worried about Kevin.  “Yeah, it’s okay, Kev, just don’t come in, we’re all taking a day off, just for the love of God don’t go out in the streets!!”

“Alright, Abby.  But then how will I get to my bike rally later this afternoon?” Thor says, and Steve is giving him a really weird look from across the hall because Steve is the only one who hears it, but it always cheers Thor up to talk to Abby.  He’s glad he called her.

“Don’t  - it’s - Erin?”

“Maybe you should stay home from your rally, Kevin,” Erin’s voice comes through the phone, and Thor’s own enhanced hearing can pick up the sound of her patting Abby on the back.

“Well, I can’t do that, it’s for the prize.  I’m sure this’ll all be over by then, though.  See you!”  

He bows his head as he hangs up the phone, then tucks it away in his uniform.  Steve doesn’t say anything, just holds his hand out to Thor to clasp.  It’s good to have a brother in arms to help bear his secrets.

And the concern doesn’t go one-way.  When Doombots come to the city, the area around the firehouse is almost completely destroyed.  The firehouse itself, oddly enough, remains virtually untouched, but that doesn’t stop fear from clenching around Thor’s heart.  As soon as the battle is done, he grabs Hulk to help him shift rubble, moving three cars out of the way perhaps less gently than he ought, judging by the crashing and rattling sounds they make as they land.  

“HULK HELP?”

“Yes, Hulk, you’re very helpful.  If you could just move this half a building which has fallen between the firehouse and myself as quickly as possible, I would - yes, thank you -”  

And then Thor and Hulk bound into the firehouse.  “BUSTERS OF GHOSTS?” Thor calls helplessly, not even sure if they’re still here, and if they are he can’t break his cover, and…

“Heyyyy.”  A slight, chest-achingly familiar blonde figure turns on her stool.  “Who ya gonna call?  No offense, but don’t call us - robots aren’t really our thing.”

“Hol - Dr. Holtzmann, I am glad to see that you are unharmed.”  

She grins and winks, which could mean anything.  

“Are the other Busters of Ghosts here?”

“Yep.  Upstairs.  Playing Monopoly, so they probably didn’t even notice to the noise - and who might you be, big guy?”  She comes off her stool now, moving closer to the Hulk.  Her stride is confident, but not aggressive, and her head is cocked to the side so that her hair flops slightly with each step.

“PRETTY LADY,” Hulk beams.

“Pret - Oh, yeah, sure, plenty pretty,” she waves off.  Then she leans towards him, not blinking or breaking eye contact.  “Hey, wanna see what happens if you drink ectoplasmic goo?”

“That sounds like a poor idea,” Thor says, eyes widening as he realizes exactly who he’s just introduced.  It’s not so much the idea of Holtzie and the Hulk, although that’’s terrifying enough, to be sure; the real terror comes at the idea of her meeting Bruce.  “I-am-afraid-we-must-be-going-right-now-please-come-now, Hulk, COME!”

“SMART LADY,” Hulk croons.  He looks sad.  “HULK SEE SMART LADY LATER?”

Oh no, Thor thinks very quietly.

Not too long after that, the Avengers are dealing with a foe of Dr. Strange’s - some mystical warlock determined to take over the city, but they’ve just had a HYDRA resurfacing, a gang war that the Hawkeyed one was determined to become involved in, and an attempted takeover of Stark Industries, all of which left them exhausted, so it’s not surprising that none of them are on the top of their game against the warlock.  

“Do we even know where this guy is holing up?” Clint complains.  “He could be anywhere.”

Wanda shakes her head glumly.  “As soon as he surfaces, I can defeat him, but I can do nothing until I know where he is.”  She pushes her long hair back out of her face once again, and Sergeant Barnes offers her a hairband with a sympathetic expression.  She nods her thanks and continues speaking.  “It will be somewhere with a history of magic, I think, near to one of the ley-lines, a private residence.  Likely one of not-insignificant stature.”

Thor blinks.  “I may be able to help locate this villain,” he says.  “Let me make a call.”

Patty picks up the phone on the second ring.  “What’s up?” she asks, and Thor starts talking immediately.  

“Patty, my thanks.  I’m seeking a residence in the city of -”

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

Thor closes his eyes and mentally says several words that don’t exist in Midgardian tongues.  

On the other hand, it works for Clark Kent.  “I, uh…  Kevin… lent his phone to our aid, this is Thor, calling from the Avengers.”

Patty is silent for a minute.

She says, “Uh huh.”

Thor opens one eye and wishes he had Mjolnir in his other hand.  “Lady Patty?”

“Uh huh.  Well you tell Kevin, Thor, that if he goes giving his phone to any more superheroes, then I will be giving my foot to his ass, because we have done the thing where Kevin got possessed, and it was not a good thing, Thor, it was a bad thing, and I do not want any harm coming to our Kevin.”  

She’s panting a little by the time she stops, and Thor closes his eye again.  

“Please don’t tell Abby,” he whispers.

Patty pauses a minute before she answers, and he can imagine her sudden stillness, the way she can let all her anger and frustration boil into the air and away, leaving her cleansed and calm.  When she answers, she’s the familiar Patty, warm and good-humored:  “Oh, I ain’t gonna tell any of them, this is gonna be hilarious,” she says, and Thor relaxes.

“So tell me about this house y'all’re looking for?”

Chapter Text

Steve stares into the mirror and curses under his breath, ripping the tie out, again, because it's crooked.

"What was that?" Tony calls curiously from the bathroom. (Tony has had a very productive day in the lab. Unfortunately, as a direct result, he had shown up in their suite with grease. Everywhere.)

"I hate your tailor," Steve calls back, glaring at the silk tie, and then at the instructions taped to the mirror, and then back at the God damned silk. "Why can't I just use a regular knot?"

"Because Tim Gunn will cry into his champagne flute if you do," Tony calls back immediately. It's probably not the real reason, but Steve appreciates that the fast response means there is, actually, a real reason. He sighs, and drapes the tie around his neck again.

Splashing sounds followed by fabric rustles, draw Steve's attention around, and he leans slightly on the dresser as Tony comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips.

It's, um.

It's a good sight.

Steve swallows, briefly glad he hadn't gotten the tie on yet.

"Still wrestling with it, gorgeous?" Tony asks, cocking his head to the side.

It emphasizes his neck, and Tony still isn't wearing a shirt. God damn.

"I will throw the tie out the window," Steve threatens weakly. "I will show up with my collar carefully undone and no tie anywhere in sight."

Tony smirks. "No, you won't. You'd cause fainting spells in all of the women, and ten percent of the men." He wipes his hands dry against the towel - which takes the opportunity to slip another inch lower on his hips, God damn it why do they have to go to this stupid expo - and reaches out to take the necktie from Steve. "Gimme," he says, and Steve tosses the tie gratefully onto the dresser.

It's actually a really nice tie, when worn correctly.  Tony's designer - who is, actually, a genius, no matter what imprecations Steve might mutter about the woman - has provided a hand-painted deep blue thing, too bright for navy but too dark for royal blue, which, when tied in what the pamphlet too-aptly has named the Eldredge Knot, flashes hints of blood red and creamy white in the knot only. It had, even Steve has to admit, looked amazing when displayed on the mannequin.

It looks a lot less amazing mangled by Steve's fumbling attempts.

Tony steps up carefully behind Steve; his chest is still a little wet, and Steve knows that Tony's being careful not to muss his suit. His hands are confident, though, as he tosses the tie around Steve's neck, straightens it, and begins to loop it around itself.

"Bend your knees," Tony orders absently, and Steve, unhesitatingly, does, allowing Tony a better angle to work on the tie.

It only takes a minute, which seems unfair. Steve watches Tony's hands smooth the fabric down, and turns his head for a kiss.

Tony catches his chin and turns him back.

Steve's breath catches, and he swallows hard against the faint pressure of the neckcloth. Tony slides his mouth against Steve's neck, warmth of his familiar kiss edging from just behind Steve's ear, to underneath it. Steve knows he's making noises, which - honestly, they're half an inch away from being whimpers, but Steve can't bring himself to care - it's taking everything he has to keep his spine erect when warmth is flooding up his back and into his bones at the movement of Tony's mouth.

They look spectacular together in the mirror. With his knees bent and Tony leaning over him like this, it could almost be an image from before the serum.

Tony sucks Steve's earlobe into his mouth for a second, flicking it with his tongue, his breath loud from proximity, then releases to lick down the hard tendon to just above the collar where he bites, gently.

Steve cries out, then gasps and works hard to regulate his breathing. "Thank you for tying my tie, Tony," he says, not particularly evenly, meeting Tony's eyes in the mirror. Warm brown as always, kind, sharp, and laughing.

"Oh, you're very welcome," Tony assures him. He smooths away Steve's bangs.

No; that's not about arranging Steve's hair. Tony pets him.

"We don't have time - not right now," Tony sighs, looking down. Then he meets Steve's eyes in the mirror, again. "Still - you've got an eidetic memory, right? So you'll remember exactly where we left off, once we get home tonight?"

Steve swallows again, and nods fervently.

Tony quirks a (secretly-delighted-looking) smile, and swats Steve hard on the ass. "Go downstairs and let me get ready, Gorgeous. I'll see you in five."

Smiling happily to himself, Steve does just that.

Chapter Text

Tony had just started the upload of the virus when Captain America woke up, his blond head tossing back and forth as he pulled at the cuffs.  It was the sort of thing that always made Tony simultaneously very happy and very sad that he was a villain these days.

Possibly, he reflected, it would be even more villainous to have pulled his shirt off.

Well.  There was always next time.

“Comfy there, Cap?”

“Not particularly,” the Captain said.  

“Shame,” Tony said indifferently.  “You know what I don’t understand?”

The Captain groaned, and gave his head a shake.  “The basic fundamentals of human decency?”

“Always.  But no, I meant something else.”  Tony was in the suit, so he hadn’t actually been sitting with his legs propped on the table in front of him, but if he had been, here was where he would swing his legs off and stand up.

Instead, he just remained standing.  It was significantly less satisfying.

“You and your… really, incredibly incompetent team -”  The Captain’s eyebrow twitched.  “- have managed on three separate occasions to interrupt my operations, which - honestly, you shouldn’t have even been able to manage one.”  Tony thought about it.  “Especially not Hawkeye.  That man is not good at espionage.”

The Captain’s eyebrow twitched again, his expression betrayal rueful agreement.  

Ha!

“So how, exactly, do you keep managing this?  First the one in Iran - which, SHIELD doesn’t even have clearance to go in there -”

“That doesn’t stop us as often as you would think,” the Captain admitted.

“- Then the thing in Boston -”

“How did you even find that many cheerleaders, anyway?”

“Paid a living wage.  It’s amazing the amount of respect cheerleaders don’t get in professional athletics these days.  Really, just appalling -”

“And this time?  What exactly are you doing in North Dakota, Iron Man?”

“Nothing anymore!”  Tony walked over to the Captain and pulled a generic necktie, purchased at the local Goodwill about three definitions of “local” ago, off the shelf.  “We left North Dakota behind about three hours ago.  Head up.”

Gratifying to see the Captain obey the direct order, he reflected as he tied the cloth tightly around the man’s head.   Really, quite beautifully obedient.

“All dark?” Tony whispered, the Iron Man speakers distorting his voice because the internal mics had difficulty at low decibels.  

“Can’t see a thing,” the Captain answered, and his shoulders were tight enough that Tony believed him.

“Good,” Tony said, and pulled off the helmet.

The Captain caught his breath when the air seals released; clearly, he knew something was up with the suit.  “What is that?” he asked, voice tense.

“Something I’ve been wanting to do for… well, let’s just call it an embarrassingly long time, and leave it at that,” Tony answered.

Then he tilted the Captain’s head up and kissed him, hard.  Punishingly, bruisingly - but fuck it, it didn’t matter, the Captain would heal, anyway - and he clearly was not the only one who had been wanting this for a while, because the Captain was kissing back, mouth first tensing, then opening obediently, beautifully, underneath the push of Tony’s tongue.  So pliant, surging upwards into the kiss.  The Captain hit the restraint of the cuffs and gave a little gasp, pulling back a little to lick along his bruised lower lip.

Well, that wasn’t fair.

Tony leaned in, pushing slowly until the Captain was pinned between him and the wall, his throat working around rapid breathing.  Desire or fear?  Without being able to see his eyes, it was difficult to tell, but Tony had a good feeling about it.

He looked down the Captain’s - broad, hard, perfect - body, to where the cup was straining and distending the armored trousers.  

Definitely a good feeling about this, Tony decided, and raised one gauntleted hand to brush down the Captains - seriously, perfect! - chest.

The Captain shuddered, and bucked into the air.

Yeah.

This was an excellent life decision.  

Tony lifted the other gauntlet.  “Open your mouth,” he ordered, voice husky, and the Captain gave another full-body shudder, and did it.  Tony slipped the armored thumb into his mouth, and it was - Jesus, it was porn.   The armor made the digit thicker, of course, and it was red, and so was the Captain’s lush, soft mouth, and then the Captain swallowed and moaned, and it was just -

“Dear sweet lady Hypatia, patron saint of scientists or philosophers or whatever the fuck you were, please just let me have five more minutes of this,” Tony breathed, watching the Captain’s face twist around his thumb.  

If I removed the blindfold, he thought, I could see his eyes…

But on the other hand, if I could see his eyes, he could see my face, and jail is not my favorite place!

The Captain shook his head, saying something around the thumb pushing gently in and out of his mouth.  Courteously, Tony removed it.  “What was that?”

“I said, ‘probably both’.  She definitely was a scientist, but the disciplines weren’t always as distinct as they are now -”

Tony pushed his thumb back in, and the Captain moaned again.

“Shhh, Captain.  You’re cutting in on my five minutes.”

The Captain tried to talk again.

Tony sighed.  “Really?  Not even five minutes?  Why do you hate me?”

The Captain definitely had something to say about that one.

“Oh, fine.”

He took his thumb out.

“I said, in reverse order, that I hate you because you keep breaking into nuclear facilities, which is very troubling behavior from someone with a well-documented opposition to governmental oversight, and also because you’ve tied me up and are sexually assaulting me -”

“Really?  I didn’t think we’d gotten to that part, yet.  I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.”

“It’s my judgement call whether or not it counts as sexual assault, Iron Man.  I’m telling you, this do-mph!”

Yeah, okay, that one was inappropriate.  The Captain looked damned good with two fingers holding down his tongue, though.

He was also somehow managing to glare through the blindfold, which, honestly, what else would you expect from the famous ‘Star-Spangled Man with a Plan’?

“Oh, alright,” Tony said, pushing down a little to see the Captain choke before pulling his fingers out.  “And the other thing?”

“The other thing,” the Captain said, and smiled wryly, “was, no, you’re not going to get five minutes.”

“You sure?”  Tony turned away to check the process of the upload - nearly finished - and was just turning back when the arrow struck the suit.  

He just had time to think, Hawkguy?  Really?!, before the EMP went off.

“But,” he protested, feeling stupid as the suit went dark, “I got rid of your tracker!  I found it, I got rid of it!”

“Yeah,” the Captain agreed, voice rough and haggard.  “The first one, yeah, you sure did.  But I figured you would.  I had a backup.”

Tony could barely see Hawkeye walking around him through the slits of the eyepiece.  “But… I’m better than you!”

The Captain sighed.  “Yeah, about that.  Iron Man?”  His voice got closer as Hawkeye released him from his shackles.   “Pride goeth.”

Chapter Text

The most annoying part about it was, he couldn’t sit down.

It made zero sense - if he could stand on the floor - he checked; he could - could pick up a book - yep again - and could climb the freaking Statue of Liberty - he’d gotten really, really bored, okay? - surely he could sit in a chair?

But no.

He fell through.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Still, though. There were worse places he could have been haunting. Whichever of the angels had been looking over his shoulder, that guy got a lot of credit from Steve for making his Dreamscape's base of operations the New York Public Library.

The thing about the Dreamscapes was, they weren’t quite the same as reality. So there were corners in Steve’s version of the Library that didn’t exist in real life, and one little nook in real life that, no matter how hard he’d looked, Steve had never been able to find in his Dreamscape.

But they did change, over time, if the physical location they were based on changed, too. It was impossible to judge how time was passing in the real world from inside a dream, of course, but soldiers in the 107th had told him about Matty Apkirk, whose sweetheart had found him easily because they were the only two Americans in a Dreamscape base on Coventry. Matty’d been in the ‘Scape when the Blitz hit, and swore up down and sideways that he’d seen the explosions.

So when Steve saw changes happening in his ‘Scape, he wasn’t too worried - he couldn’t have been dead for too long, after all. Nobody invested in libraries first, but still, it was probably just an excess of funds after the Recovery.

The other thing about Dreamscapes was that, although you would see all the same people there, most folks who ended up meeting their Soulmate in a city didn’t see them all that often, simply because cities had pretty dense populations. So you would get to know a few familiar faces, but for the most part, it was so crowded that people didn’t really notice each other. There’d even been cases of mistaking your soulmate for someone else you'd met here, over and over through the years.

Steve figured it was a little different when you were immaterial; though.That was pretty noticeable. People would only need to see it once.

So he tried to stay out of people’s way. He took to climbing the bookshelves - there was always something interesting to read, he usually grabbed a stack of two or three books to take with him - and hiding out, where no one was likely to go barging into him.

After all, he didn’t know how a ghost could have a Soulmate, but it was probably best if he didn’t go panicking the general public over it.

He learned about cars - he thought he could probably have driven one pretty well, if he ever got a body.

He read about the new computing machines they were coming up with, which sounded like something out of a science fiction novel (but then, he was hardly one to talk).

He read poetry - so much poetry - Shakespeare’s sonnets and Hardy’s pessimistic meliorism, “My Last Duchess”and “Ozymandias” and then, sobbing, everything ever written by Wilfred Owen.

He read about art, and art technique, and art theory, and famous art, and even found books full of beautiful prints after beautiful prints...

He read about exercise, about bodybuilding, about muscles and muscle groups, about carbs and fats and proteins and how they all came together. Not that it mattered: a ghost couldn’t eat, and even if he could, he certainly couldn’t exercise. Steve had always been scrawny in his Dreamscape, both before and after Rebirth.

He taught himself French.

Time passed.

They were re-doing the carpets again. Didn’t they just redo those?

There was a boy watching him.

Not really a boy, of course: access to the Dreamscape came at puberty, which Steve had always privately thought was a very good thing. But still - a very young man. Fourteen? Fifteen?

Electric blue eyes framed in dark lashes blinked at him thoughtfully over a book the boy was not even pretending to read, so Steve put down his book and gestured, politely, for him to come over.

“Why were you looking at me?” he asked, when the boy was standing in front of his current shelf.

“Because you weren’t,” the boy said, jostling his feet.

“Beg your pardon?”

A dark head nodded toward the other patrons of the Dreamscape’s library. “Look around - because that’s what everybody else is doing, too. Everybody knows they’re here to meet their Soulmate, and they’re all so eager for it they can’t sit still. Look around, walk around, meet everybody’s eyes - they’re hoping to get ‘the spark’, aren’t they? That sense of connection that marks a true and binding Soulbond -”

The boy threw his hand over his forehead melodramatically, and Steve snorted.

“But you’re not. You never have, I’ve been watching you for a month. You just sit up here - usually here, this week, but the first week you were over there -”

Steve had thought that was yesterday; that was three weeks ago?!

“ - and you read. So. What’s up? Why aren’t you looking for -”

”Don’t get all dramatic again.”

“ - Fine. But still; what gives?”

Steve sighed. “Look, do you wanna join me up here?”

The boy looked surprised, then shrugged. “Sure,” he said casually. “Gimme a hand up?” Steve reached down right-handed, and the boy smacked his own hand...

... right through it.

He stared. “The hell?”

Steve smiled, bitterly. “I’m dead,” he explained. “Sorry for the shock; that was really the only way I could think of to prove it.” The boy looked up, wide-eyed, and Steve found himself noticing all over again how blue they were. “Sorry.” There was really only one way to say it: “I’m a ghost.”

The boy stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, no.”

Steve shrugged, feeling pretty awkward. “I don’t know why I’m haunting the Dreamscape, exactly… Maybe I’ve got to let my soulmate know I’m dead?”

“Oh, no,” the kid repeated, tearing up. “I think? I, um. I think you just did.”

Steve gaped, and then tumbled down from the shelf as fast as possible, no climbing - not important right now. He tried to hug the kid, but of course - he couldn’t even give him a hand up, he definitely couldn’t hug him…Desperately, he grabbed the two biggest books he could see, and pressed them in on either side against the kid, squeezing as hard as he could.

The kid looked up with swimming eyes. “What - what are you doing?” The books shifted awkwardly as he wiped at his eyes and nose, pretending there was nothing there to see.

“I can’t - a hug. This is the closest I can get to -” He dropped the books (they hit carpet with a muffled thump) and held out his hand. “Steve Rogers,” he introduced himself.

The boy passed through his hand on the first try, but he managed to hold his hand so that the palm just brushed Steve’s on the second. “Tony Stark,” he said.

Steve reached up, but of course he couldn’t brush the tears away, either. “I’m so sorry, Tony. I really am. I am so, so sorry…”

Tony’s knees buckled, and he curled up in the recessed area where the bookshelf would mostly block him from view. All Steve could do was sit next to him and stand guard…

...so that’s what he did.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take Steve long to figure out that Tony was still growing; it wasn’t quite that every time he saw him, he was bigger, but… It felt like that. That being said, he was surprised when Tony told him he was in college, mostly because Tony seemed awfully small to be eighteen years old.

“Oh, I’m not,” Tony said offhandedly when Steve asked. “I’m a genius. I have dozens of patents already, I speak four languages - five if you count my French, which my teacher says you shouldn’t, but don’t listen to him, he’s an a - a jerk…” Tony had already figured out that Steve didn’t like it when he swore. “...And I basically get degrees for fun.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t even be going, except Dad says I should go, and I’m not an adult yet, so I can’t actually refuse.”

Steve stared, wide-eyed. “Jeez,” he said, “How did I luck into getting someone like you?”

Tony grinned, shy and brilliant at the same time. “Dunno,” he smirked. “You could say, you’ve died and gone to Heaven.”

Steve busted out laughing, and several of the Dreamscape library patrons looked around. Tony doubled over with snickers.

“Oh, good,” Tony gasped. “I was afraid that one might have gone too far.”

“Nah,” Steve said,, grinning over at him. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “I’d say that was just far enough. Hey, listen: Tony.”

Tony looked up, blue eyes alight with laughter, sparkling from behind lashes as thick and black as a crow’s wing. His dark brows were dancing, his cheeks lightly flushed, and his lips were shiny and pink because Tony had a habit of biting them around Steve.

He was absolutely beautiful.

“If this is my afterlife," Steve said, "If hanging around you forever is what I get to do as my Heaven - well, then, I’d say it’s a damned good Heaven.”

Tony froze, looking over at him, body leaning slightly as if he wanted to press himself into Steve, but -

-- That wasn’t an option.

Tony grabbed a book off the table and slung it behind Steve’s back; Steve grabbed one and tucked it around his stomach; and when Tony squeezed a hug on him, the two books pressed him between them.

It was close enough.

(For now.)

And then this next bit happens between Tony's parents dying and Tony going off to Afghanistan, which, since this is 616, is less than a year.  This is actually the last time Steve sees Tony before Afghanistan happens.

“So tell me about these machines,” Steve said, pointing.

Tony looked, and double-taked. “The computers? You finally want to know about how to work computers?  Why now?”

“Is that what they are? I thought computers were, you know…” He made a gesture with his hands, a broad, wide one in a boxy shape. “...bigger.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the size that counts,” Tony snickered, shoving his hair back and licking his lips. “Come on.” He stretched, arms reaching up towards the ceiling, t-shirt pulling over strong shoulders, and led the way.

It was becoming a problem.

The thing was, Tony had always been beautiful: he had dramatic coloring, a well-built form, and a handsome face that was only going to get more good-looking as he got older. But when Steve had first met him, he’d also been young - fifteen, Steve knew now - and he’d looked it. So while he was cute kid, and Steve had already been able to tell he would be a handsome man… He hadn’t been a handsome man yet.

And they hadn’t talked about it, really - at first, Steve had consciously steered the conversation away from the subject, just due to Tony’s age - but most soulmates weren’t both men. Most were couples. And most of the soulmates that were both men, as Steve understood it, were friends - which meant friends like he and Bucky had been, not friends like he and Arnie had been.

So Steve was pretty sure that Tony was cheerfully oblivious to Steve’s fascination with his newly adult body. It was…

Well.

Steve hoped Tony was oblivious, because otherwise, Steve was pretty sure he was going to get all thirty-two volumes of the Encyclopedia Brittanica upside his head.

As an adult, Tony was… He was fulfilling all his potential, that was one thing for sure. He was tall, he was graceful, he was muscular… He’d shown up once in a washed-thin t-shirt, and Steve had almost passed out. And Steve wasn’t even sure whether a guy could pass out in a Dreamscape! He was lively, animated, charming…

Steve was a fair bit of the way to infatuated, to be honest.

And then there was the other side of Tony that Steve had been privileged to see: the vulnerable part, the part that constantly yearned for his father’s approval, the part that was quick to make himself the butt of a joke before anybody else had a chance…

God, there was nothing Steve wouldn’t do for Tony.

So he gamely followed him over to the computers.

Steve was pretty impressed with the internet; it seemed pretty useful, if one were alive, at any rate. When they were done, Tony opened a different program, typed up the instructions for Steve to try this himself, and told the machine to print.

“Here,” he said, handing Steve the paper, which was, indeed, neatly typed with all the directions Tony had just written out.

“It’s warm,” Steve noticed, surprised.

“Oh! Yeah - laserjet printer, it’s -” Tony stopped talking as Steve stepped closer, into his space.

Steve held the paper up vertically, in front of Tony’s face but just low enough that he could see a blue eye peeking out above it. He leaned in, close, next to Tony’s cheek…

...and kissed the paper.

He knew immediately that he shouldn’t have done it.

A quick kiss, a peck, that was something that could be excused; write it off as excitement, a show of affection - well, they were soulmates. A certain intimacy of expression was to be expected between friends that close. But… the paper was... warm. He found himself... well… lingering.

Senses in the Dreamscape were typically dulled; not the sight and sound, so much - although, Steve’s were, because he was in his pre-serum body in the Dreamscape - but taste and scent. (Tony had said, once, that the Dreamscape was largely shaped by their expectations, and people don’t think enough about taste or scent for the world to incorporate them.)

But boy, Steve could sure smell Tony now, cologne and sweat and expensive scotch, and that sweet sleepy smell of a man curled up under at least three blankets.

It wasn’t that he’d never been this close to him, before. It was just that there just had never been any point. They’d spent plenty of time curled up together on the colorful carpets in the children’s section, the large, flat Where’s Waldo? books giving Steve purchase, but even then, Steve’s person had been Steve’s, and Tony’s had been Tony’s, and there wasn’t any…nuzzling.

Because that was what Steve was doing, right now: nuzzling at the paper, nose pressing in above his mouth, lips warm on the dry leaf. It was soft, it was gentle; it was… Well, it wasn’t perfect, exactly, but it was probably as close as Steve was ever going to get, and he let himself have one more second before he had to pull away...

...And that was when Tony moaned.

His eyes flew open - when had he closed them? - and he met Tony’s gaze, which was startled, wide-eyed, and - longing.

Yearning. That was - that was the expression Tony was wearing, unless Steve was very much mistaken, and when had that happened? When had Tony looked at him and thought, “Yes, this is something I want”? Why would anybody think that?

“Steve,” Tony said urgently, reaching out to grab Steve by his suspenders, even though his hand passed through just as usual. “Steve, that was - we should - we need to talk about this - !”

But it was too late. By then Tony was gone, faded from existence, because sometimes Tony, unlike Steve, woke up.

Chapter Text

Sarah takes approximately twenty-five seconds after they all go out for shwarma to fall in love with Tonia.

The timeline goes like this:

They all sit down at the shwarma table.  Mark: zero.

Tonia flirts with Sarah.  Mark: ten seconds.

Sarah blushes.  Mark: eleven seconds.

Tonia turns to Claire about her arrowheads while, simultaneously, texting.  Mark: seventeen seconds.

Claire enthuses about explosive arrows.  Mark… all the seconds, actually; Claire has a surprisingly narrow range of interests.

Tonia tilts her head and attempts to listen.  A single drop of blood oozes down the side of her neck, where Sarah can see it, but no one else can; it’s a last remnant of the head trauma Tonia suffered while falling after closing the portal.  Mark: twenty-one seconds.

Tonia’s phone buzzes; Tonia, checking the message, looks pleased, and then gives the Red Hunter — Anatoli, his name is Anatoli, Sarah has really got to stop thinking of him as the Hunter — her attention.  Mark: twenty-three seconds.

Sarah, incurably nosy since long before even the day she met Becks, tilts her head enough to read the message.  It’s a communique from the Mayor about expediting the repair and rebuilding efforts, with thanks for the aid from Stark Industries.

Sarah falls in love.  Mark: twenty-five seconds.

Hooo, boy; this could be a problem…

It doesn’t help that Tonia is touchy.  And not ‘touchy’ in the sense of ‘irritable’, either; she’s ‘touchy’ in the sense that she touches Sarah all the goddamned time!  

Sarah doesn’t mind, exactly.

She just wishes…

…well.

She wishes.

“Well, hey there, Cap!”  Tonia leans over the back of the couch, where Sarah is sitting and sketching.  Immediately, without provocation, Sarah blushes.

It has nothing at all to do with Tonia’s familiar voice breathing intimately into Sarah’s ear.

Nothing.  

“Hello, Tonia,” Sarah replies, (hopefully) keeping her voice measured and steady.  “Good day?”

“Great day,” Tonia purrs.  Sarah reminds herself that it’s not for her benefit, that that’s just how Tonia talks.

(It doesn’t help.)

“So, you probably weren’t defrosted back then—”  Tonia absently rubs her hand through the short blonde hair on Sarah’s head, back and forth, back and forth; Sarah tries not to pant.

Or combust.

“ — But a few months ago, Hammer Industries got walloped.  By, well, me, basically.  And since Hammer Ind just went down, all their defense contracts are coming up.  We weren’t bidding on all of them — Stark Industries is out of the weapons game, completely, which plenty of people are pissed off about —”

Sarah remembers the briefing packet which had covered that decision.  Fury appears to disagree with Tonia’s reasoning, but he’s supportive, at least, of her decision.

“ — but we still got most of the contracts we bid on, including some experimental tech contracts which funnel funds directly into our R&D.  So, yeah— good day.”  

Without warning, Tonia hops over the back of the couch in a display of athleticism which belies her normal claims of being an indolent multimillionaire — that sort of flexibility and strength, at her age, take effort.  She settles into the seat cushions with a groan, stretching her feet out and across Sarah’s lap as Sarah pulls her arms desperately up and out of the way to accommodate her.  Tonia lifts her head, giving Sarah a fond smile.  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, sounding hopeful.  “I have seventy-two hours to completely veg before the contracts descend upon me and I have to go flying into a whirl of activity.  You don’t mind if I spend this time chilling with you, do you?”

Sarah plasters on a smile.  “Of course not,” she says desperately.  Tentatively, she settles one hand on Tonia’s shin, thumb rubbing across the surface of the warm, tan skin.  

Tonia groans.  “That feels amazing,” she says, and then adds casually, “Keep it up, would you?”  

Sarah’s mind is testing its emergency broadcast system, apparently, because all Sarah can hear is a monotone, high-pitched beeeeeeeeeeep.

In a small voice, Sarah admits, “I like it when you ‘hang out’ with me, Tonia.”

Tonia lifts her head from the pillow she has already arranged under it, studying Sarah’s face.  “Good,” she says.  She raises her right hand and sets it on the unnatural girth of Sarah’s bicep, squeezing lightly and then rubbing, up and down, up and down, the heat of her hand like a brand even through Sarah’s fleece zip-up jacket.  “I’m glad,” Tonia says, voice pitched low and sincere.

Sarah flashes another smile, this one more genuine than the last, and cautiously rests her sketchpad on Tonia’s legs.

Absorbed in her drawing, Sarah doesn’t noticed the pleased, possessive gleam in Antonia’s eyes as the older woman looks at her.  But then, she wouldn’t have been upset if she had, either.

Chapter Text

There was a woman standing in the sunlight.

Toni swallowed, and turned her attention back to Bruce.  This was a college campus; there were a lot of women standing in sunlight.  There were probably whole cloud formations moving around the sky just so that the women walking around campus could, in fact, be standing in sunlight.

Most of them probably didn’t have metal arms, though…

I am going to be so disappointed if that’s just a cool looking sweater…  “No, it’s a very simple project!  No.  No.  Bruce, stop.  It’s not going to be too complicated for your students.”

“Toni.  I’ve met you.”  Bruce sipped his tea— which looked disgusting, seriously, what was wrong with good, old-fashioned American coffee? — and shot Toni a nonplussed look.  “Whatever it is you’re planning to lecture about, dumb it down.  A lot.  About five levels.”

“You said it was— “

“Yes, it’s a graduate-level class, but Toni, you are higher than graduate level!”

“There isn’t anything higher than graduate level!” she objected.  “When you’ve gotten your PhD, your next degree is another PhD!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.  “Wait, is this about you being bitter over every time you’ve gotten called ‘Ms. Stark’?  Because that happens to every woman in the STEM fields—”

“No!  Of course not!”  They stared at each other, and Toni slurped her coffee defensively.

Bruce raised one bushy eyebrow.

“Okay, mostly not.  Excuse me— “  Toni slipped out of her chair and scooted across the crowded Starbucks just as the woman in the sunlight started to twitch and jerk.

Barnes was not having a great day even before her Arm glitched out and started trying to kill people.  

She was supposed to be meeting with her ex, for one thing, which never went well— he always worried about her, she always resented his worrying, it was a whole routine-full of bullshit— and her favorite hoodie had gotten coffee spilled all over it, which forced her to have her Arm out in the tank she had deliberately worn because she knew she would have the god damned hoodie!  

Also, she was craving chocolate to a suspiciously large degree.

So she was standing there, playing with the edge of her tank, waiting for Steve to show his dumb ass up so she could get his god damned keys so she could pet-sit his god damned, poop-munching, drool-mongering dog, when she felt the clench in her shoulder muscles which inevitably accompanied a set of spasms from the Arm.

The Arm.  

It was a great program, she guessed— when the Arms didn’t try to kill people, anyway— setting vets like her up with cutting-edge prosthetics in exchange for the tiny, itsy-bitsy favor of test-driving the tech.  She hated how much time it took up, and she couldn’t draw with the Arm, and she hated like fire that she needed it, but the Arm itself was pretty cool.

Except when it fucking did this!

Her shoulder clenched at the back, then twitched in the front, and she just had time to throw herself to the side before the Arm spasmed back on its own, elbowing some lady in the gut.  There was an “Ooof!” from behind her, and then Barnes ran for the rail that separated the Starbucks upper level from the stairs.  If she could get over the edge, get to the outside, then there would be anyone for the Arm to hit— otherwise, the building was just too crowded to get away without casualties—

— More casualties, that was.  There was that one lady from behind Barnes, already.

Fuck!  

Barnes really did not have time or money for assault charges, and she was already mentally composing her apology to the lady when someone tripped her.  Barnes stumbled, fell, hit the floor, and felt something warm and soft flop over her, something like a… cloak?  

No, a coat.  

It was a huge, warm, satin-lined wool greatcoat, Burberry if Barnes didn’t miss her guess (she didn’t— Barnes might not live in fashion country anymore, but she still spoke the language fluently.)  

It was expensive.  

…And possibly it said something about Barnes’ sense of appropriate priorities  that she noticed the coat first, and the sudden stillness in her Arm second.  

“…What.”

“Sorry,” said a smug, amused voice from above and behind her, “I assumed you were trying to still the Arm?”

“…What the fuck?”

Barnes stood up, clutching the Burberry around her, and faced the speaker.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, she was hot.

The woman, wide-mouthed and curvy and holy shit levels of sexy, smirked from under her short, spiky black hair.  Her eyes were brown, and expressive, and unspeakably clever.  She was wearing two-thirds of a suit:  long, pinstriped, charcoal pants and matching waistcoat, with a mauve-purple button-down shirt, but no suit jacket.  The cuffs of her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows.

Mentally, Barnes whimpered.

“The Arms glitch out when the central processors, near where the bone would be, reach a temperature of sixty-five degrees or cooler.   Technically, it should never do that, since most humans are intelligent enough to wear clothes, but apparently there’s an exception to every rule.”  The woman’s eyes travelled down Barnes’ body slowly, and then back up, lingering on the sweep of collarbone exposed by the tank top.  “Not that I mind,” the stranger added.  

Barnes mentally whimpered again, but then rallied.  Once upon a time, she had had the skills for this…  A long time ago, before Steve, and the army, and the IED which had taken her left arm, and the depression…  

…But damn if this lady didn’t make Barnes want to bring those skills back.  

Barnes smiled, and let it spread past the point that felt comfortable, slick and juicy over her cheeks, until it settled into a new (old) groove, a lush one, a deliberate one.  “Hey, lady,” she said “Can I borrow your coat?”

The woman stepped in closer, ostensibly to straighten the greatcoat over Barnes’ shoulders.  Actually, she used the opportunity to put her lips so close to Barnes’ ear that all of Barnes’ thoughts disapparated into a white-noise buzzing:  “I think you can borrow a lot of things from me,” she murmured.  “Got a name?”

This was flirting.

This was flirting!  

Holy shit!

“Bunny,” Barnes blurted.  

Then closed her eyes in mortification, but it was too late to back out now.  “Jane Barnes, actually; most people just call me Barnes, but…  My friends call me Bunny.”

The woman’s velvety eyes looked even better when laughing, Barnes found.  “Toni,” she introduced herself.  “Or at least, that’s why my friends call me.  Everyone else calls me ‘Trouble’.”  

Barnes leaned in as seductively as she could.  It felt rusty, and odd, and her pulse was pounding heavy in her ears, but hopefully it was effective.  “Are they right?”

“Well…”  Toni looked down and to the side, and then back up into Barnes’ eyes again.  “…They’re not wrong.”  

“Actually…  What I’m about to call you is, late to my lecture.”  The apologetic note, as much as anything, pulled Bunny’s head around to where one of the Physics profs was awkwardly mauling a green tea.  

Toni sighed.  “Tell you what, gorgeous; you keep that arm warm, and I’ll go give Bruce’s classful of dunces a repeat of the talk I gave last week, and then I’ll come back here and pick up…” You, they all filled in the pause. “…my coat.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Barnes said, and she meant  it to come out sultry, but it just sounded mumbled to her ears.

Still, Toni seemed to like it.  She stepped forward, running her hands down Barnes’ sides — Barnes gasped— and into the pockets of the greatcoat, coming out with a cell phone in one hand and a wallet in the other.  She smirked again, from about an inch away, and Barnes felt her eyes go wide, her muscles paralyzed.

She didn’t look away the entire time Toni walked down the stairs and out of the coffee shop.  

Honestly, she didn’t think anyone could blame her.

Chapter Text

Thor had long admired many fine traits in the Avengers’ Captain, but his manner with women had never been one of those.  Steven was as clever as he was strong, as loyal as he was brave, and as deft with women as Thor was with music.  Which was to say:  not.

The Widow, at least, had seen this.  (The women, not the music.)  While Thor had not been present during her many glib attempts at finding the Captain a wife–or even just a wench!–he had heard many tales of the same directly from the lady herself.  Most such tales were comic; all were significantly more comic once the Widow had consumed some of the many libations made available to them.

Still, Thor had also seen the Captain command, and ably; this, then, was a surprise.  

“It’s, uh… wow, you sure are…  Great to meet you!”

Oh, no.

Brunnhilde turned from the Captain back to Thor.  "Is he drunk?“

“Probably not,” Thor said gingerly.

She turned back to Steven again.  "What’s wrong with you?!“

Steven looked mortified.  "Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said, “I’m sorry.  Thor– it’s great to see you again, buddy.”  

Buddy? mouthed Brunn behind Steve’s back.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime.  Maybe… never.  I’m so sorry–”  

And then, like the bard in the ancient fable, the Captain made the critical error of glancing back at Brunnhilde once more.  "God, you’re beautiful,“ he blurted.

Then he looked horrified, turned redder than the blood of an angry norn, and ran, hurling himself straight over the railing of the spaceport they were all standing in.

Brunn and Thor moved to the edge to watched him fall. 

“He’s really quite fast,” Brunn observed.

“Mm.”

“Good landing–look, he’s already getting up again.  Resilient.”

“Mm.”

“…Not bad looking, either.”

Thor glanced down at her.  "Mm?“

“So.  Is he always so… sooo….”

“Awkward?”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“No?”

“I have followed that man into battle many times in the last few years.  He is brave and strong and fierce and clever.  It is only in the presence of a beautiful maiden that he is reduced once more to a callow youth.”

Thor gave Brunn a significant look.  She glanced at it and looked away.  

Then she looked back, incredulously.  "Me?!“

Thor waved his hands.  "Certainly not me,” he pointed out.

Brunn waved her hands, too.  "Hulk is right there!  He’s beautiful!“ 

They both paused, looking at Hulk.  

Hulk sighed, perpetually lonely, longing for his empty heart to finally be filled.. 

“You’re not wrong,” Thor hedged, fighting–and losing–against the tide of a large green memory dripping onto the Grandmaster’s floor.  "Hulk is–lovely, I’m sure, but–“

He looked back at Brunnhilde, the last of the Valkyries, strong and sad, still here when everyone else she knew had perished.  He thought about the lost look in her eyes as she spoke of Asgard, of the sense he had developed that she no longer knew her own identity, not beyond the next enemy, the next fight.  He thought of his own feelings, carefully hidden and nourished, a small flower in a secret grove in his heart.  Many small flowers, for his was a fertile heart, although the blooms that grew there were delicate.  

He sighed and clapped Brunn on the back.  "Well, I’m sure he’ll loosen up once you get a drink or two in him.”

Later that night: 

“I’m so sorry,” the Captain–Steve–said again, miserably.  He was drunk, by now, leaning onto the table, staring at her with big, sad blue eyes like she was the last ever setting of the moon or some such thing.

Brunn was out of patience with it. “You said that,” she informed him.

“A lot,” Hulk rumbled.  Stealthily–for Hulk–he reached over and stole the Captain’s mug.

“I know, I know, and it’s not– I just– You look so…”

She glared.  The man might be Thor’s friend, but he had been nothing but inarticulate since they met.  She (and Hulk) had been slipping Asgardian mead into his mug for the last hour, but while he had gotten less… terrified looking… he hadn’t gotten more articulate.  In fact, Brunn wasn’t sure he had finished a sentence that wasn’t any kind of an apology for the last ten minutes.

He was clearly not going to live up to the hopes she wasn’t admitting Thor had raised in her.

“You’re just… You have these eyes that– and then your lips, you’re just–”

Oh, God, this was about to get very tiresome–

“–and all I wanna do is lick you all over,” the Captain finished, and Brunn blinked as she realized what he had said.

“Oh,” she said.

Well, that did change some things.  

She and Hulk exchanged a speculative glance.  Hulk shrugged:  her call.

Brunn looked back at the Captain.  At Steve, she reminded herself.  “Well…” she said, “…as long as you’re up for licking me, I think I know where you should start.”